Shatterpoint
by lionesseyes13
Summary: The story of the acrimony between Duke Gareth and Lord Alan.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story, which will contain several more chapters, is being written for the July Challenge over at the Tamora Pierce Writing Experiment forum. It will be a frame story with the prologue and the epilogue transpiring during Alanna's time as a page, and with the body chapters of the story taking place back when Duke Gareth was a page. Hopefully, this causes no confusion. If anyone is befuddled, though, please feel free to say so in a review, and I will do my best to clarify.

_"The soul that sinneth, the same shall die: the son shall not bear the iniquity of the father, and the father shall not bear the iniquity of the son: the justice of the just shall be upon him, and the wickedness of the wicked will be upon him."-Ezekiel 18:20, Douay-Rheims Bible_

Prologue: Wars of Our Fathers

Duke Gareth of Naxen glanced up from the document he was reading which compared the prices of grain over the last decade when a firm knock sounded upon his study door.

"Come in," he called vaguely, noting with some satisfaction that the cost of grain was making modest gains. That would please the realm's farmers and nobles, although the city dwellers wouldn't be happy. Still, city folk were never content, and a kingdom, given all the conflicting interests of its myriad subjects, could never be run in a manner that pleased everyone all the time. All a prime minister like himself could do was advise the king on how to best serve the maximum number of beings. Truly, it was a thankless chore, but, since his brother-in-law had appointed him to the post, it was his duty to do it as well as he could.

"I'm here," his son Gary announced, stating the obvious, stepping into the office, and shutting the door after entering. "I'm right on time, too. Really, I think I deserve some medal of honor for that."

"You deserve no medal of honor, silly boy." His lips thinning, Duke Gareth tucked the document about grain prices into a desk drawer, so that he could attend to his responsibilities as a training master and as a father. "Sons are supposed to obey their fathers, and I don't believe people should be rewarded for meeting expectations. Rather, they should be punished when they fail to do so. Besides, being right on time is just another way of saying that you were almost late."

"Then I can almost get punished for almost being late and that would almost make sense, sir," remarked Gary, as jovial in his impudence as ever.

"Your use of the word almost is almost becoming excessive." Smiling slightly, Duke Gareth gestured for his son to slide into the chair opposite his desk. "Sit down."

As Gary complied, settling his broad frame into the seat, it occurred to Duke Gareth that the young man must have grown overnight again. It was always astonishing to think that the baby Gareth had cradled in his arms had developed into a page whose size could only be rivaled by the gentle giant Raoul of Goldenlake. Of course, it was really no less incredible that the mewling baby had morphed into a young man with a vocabulary at least as extensive as Gareth's.

Gareth had tried to be a good father—one who was present for all the milestones in his only child's life—but there were still a million precious moments that he missed. That couldn't be avoided, he supposed. He would have been forced to stand over his son while the lad slept if he didn't want to miss any of the boy's phenomenal growth, after all, and that idea was one of the most preposterous he had concocted in months.

"You have grown since I last saw you, Gary," he said, as he did every time he laid eyes on his son. Perhaps that was the father's mantra during the teenage years, much as "sleep well" was the one for the infancy era. Of course, the words themselves didn't matter. Only the ritual of repeating them had any meaning. "You must be at least three inches taller than you were last time we spoke."

"You say that every time you see me, Father, and we meet nearly every day." Gary rolled his eyes like he always did at this point in the ritual.

"Well, if you didn't cause so much trouble, I wouldn't have to see you so often," replied Duke Gareth crisply, completing the rite. Then, getting down to business, he went on, "Anyway, today I haven't summoned you here to punish you. Instead, I want to ask you about the progress of the page, Alan of Trebond, whom you are sponsoring."

"Since Jon is always appointing me to sponsor the newest pages in this rat warren of a palace—" Gary emitted a long-suffering sigh, and Gareth overrode him sternly.

"It is an honor, son, to receive tasks from royalty. It means they trust you to do the job well. In this case, it means that your cousin believes you intelligent enough to instruct newcomers and values your ability to read people's characters."

"Naturally, I get my intelligence and people-reading abilities from you, my revered father." Gary's chestnut eyes sparkled mischievously. "Now, since I was interrupted earlier, I don't remember the precise words of wisdom I was about to utter, but I do recall that the gist of them was that because I have so much experience with sponsorship, I can just tell you all the information you require without you having to ask me a single question in order to save time. Let's get started, then, shall we?"

Without waiting for a response, Gary carried on in a rush as his father hurriedly unscrewed an inkwell and began to write down Gary's report. "Name: Alan of Trebond, oldest son of Lord Alan of Trebond. Sponsor: the creatively-named Gareth the Younger of Naxen. Academic Progress: Alan arrived able to read, write, and perform basic arithmetic, which could be signs of genius. For the most part, he completes his work on time. While he is rotten at mathematics, he has the sense to seek the help of a mathematical wizard like Alexander of Tirragen. His reading and writing is average to above average, and he seems to have a special love for military history at least as it is taught by Sir Myles. The boundless delight he feels when studying etiquette with Master Oakbridge is about equal to that of any other page."

"Gary," Duke Gareth cut in sharply, as he scribbled down a censored version of his son's assessment, writing that Alan was proficient at reading and writing, adequate at etiquette, and possibly above average in history. "You know that I can't use half of what you're saying."

"Feel free to paraphrase, Father, as long as you don't put quotation marks around things that aren't direct quotes." Gary brushed the duke's objection off briskly before going on, "Warrior prowess: Alan is relatively skilled at archery and riding. He also, so the evidence indicates, is not above engaging in the occasional fistfight with a scab like Ralon of Malven. Additional comments: Alan is good company and cracks funny jokes especially about boring etiquette classes, and that's the most glowing endorsement a page could receive from his peers."

As Duke Gareth finished modifying his son's observations to something befitting a formal report, Gary stated in a smooth tone, "Since I saved you so much time by answering your questions before you could even pose them, I think it would be fair if you took the time to answer a question of mine."

"What question would that be?" Warily, Duke Gareth arched an eyebrow.

"Alan said you didn't seem to care for his father much," Gary explained. "I was wondering what created the bad blood between you and Lord Alan."

"I don't like many people." Duke Gareth pressed his lips together. "That doesn't necessarily mean there is bad blood between us."

"Father, that answers about fifty questions I didn't ask." Gary snorted.

"You didn't ask any question," his father pointed out dryly.

"I did indirectly," argued Gary, lifting his chin.

"Just as I answered indirectly," Duke Gareth retorted.

"I don't know why you won't just tell me the truth, Father," snapped Gary. "When you skirt around questions, it makes me imagine something at least five times worst than what really happened."

"It was many years ago, son." Sighing, the duke shook his head. "What happened many years ago between Lord Alan and me doesn't matter."

"How can you say it doesn't matter?" demanded Gary, brown eyes burning. "If there's one thing I've learned in history, it is that the past matters, and ignoring it won't make it vanish. Nobody likes to say it, but without our past, we wouldn't be us. Everything we do is either a homage to or a rejection of our history. Those who believe that they are above the study of history merely end up repeating the mistakes of the past because of their arrogance. In the crudest sense, it doesn't make a difference if we love or hate our fathers, we are still shaped by them. It doesn't matter if we wish to resolve or continue the wars of our fathers. We still need to understand them before we can end or carry on them."

"Well, even if we don't manage to make a knight of you, you'll make quite a scholar." Wryly, Duke Gareth's lips quirked upward.

"Did you not approve of Lord Alan because he was always more of a scholar than a knight?" Cocking his head sideways, Gary frowned. "Not everyone can be a cunning warrior, Father, just like not everybody can be a brilliant scholar."

"My problem with Lord Alan was never that his nose was always buried in a book," responded Duke Gareth tersely. "My issue with him is that, for all his scholarly tendencies, he was always a fool. He never respected the danger and the complexity of the things he sought to comprehend. I doubt that, in all his years as a scholar, he has once considered how a piece of knowledge that he had no right to possess could destroy himself or those close to him. That is a mark of an idiot who doesn't understand what he is dealing with even after years of book learning. You see, what they say about Lord Alan not being ambitious isn't true. Yes, he has no interest in court games or in being even reasonably competent at the fighting arts. However, he has always had a ruthless streak, and there was never a time when he wouldn't do anything to have more knowledge than everyone else. A man who lacks drive or whose ambition overleaps itself can be tolerated, but a man like Lord Alan who is simultaneously too ambitious and not ambitious enough cannot be forgiven. At heart, Lord Alan is selfish, careless, and stupid. A more detestable combination of traits is nearly impossible to imagine. That is why I don't like him. There are many scholars in the world whom I admire greatly, son, but Lord Alan of Trebond will never be among them."

"Even by your standards, those are harsh words, Father." Gary's frown deepened as his forehead furrowed. "What did Lord Alan do that could possibly justify you despising him so much?"

"It's a long story." Duke Gareth shook his head.

"Then you'd better start telling it now." Gary folded his arms across his chest, his face and voice resolute. "I don't intend on moving so much as a muscle until I've heard it all."

"Let the dead past bury its own dead." Duke Gareth's jaw clenched. "Don't drag it into the present to create more casualties."

"As I said earlier, the past is never dead." Gary shot his father a penetrating glance. "If you don't tell me what happened yourself, I will ferret around until I find out the truth about what transpired between you and Lord Alan. Why not give me the story with your bias if I'm going to uncover it in another way if you don't?"

"I won't tell you it with a bias," Duke Gareth established in a tight tone. "I'll just give you the facts of what happened. Then you can draw your own conclusions."


	2. Chapter 2

_"In what day soever you shall eat thereof, your eyes shall be opened, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil."-Genesis 3:5, Douay-Rheims Bible._

Best of the Best

The two fourteen-year-old boys paused outside the closed oak door separating Squire Gareth of Naxen's bedroom from his knightmaster's quarters. There were locks on the doors that divided the chambers of knights from their squires, but such locks were rarely used. It was thought that there was no need for them. Between a knightmaster and squire, there was supposed to be nothing to hide, and the Code of Chivalry gave each knight or squire the challenge as well as the privilege of living with honor. It was assumed that the discipline to do so would prevail both in one's public and private life.

As such, to enter one's knightmaster's room without an invitation would not violate a rule. Not one that needed to be spoken or written, at least. Yet, Gareth knew it was wrong. It wasn't terribly immoral, but it was still undeniably wrong.

"Come on," Alan of Trebond urged. "No one will find out."

Gareth glanced at his friend. Alan's face was eager. A dusting of freckles scattered across his blunt nose like a dense constellation of stars. His eyes, a pine green with amber streaks reminiscent of a forest shot through with rays of sun, were warm, ablaze with mischief.

Alan had been suggesting wild schemes since they had met at ten when they had started page training together. Once, he'd even persuaded Gareth to join him in exploring sewers in Corus. That experience had left Gareth with reeking breeches and a healthy respect for sanitation practices.

"Besides, he's your knightmaster," Alan added. "He wouldn't mind."

It was true that Sir Jeremiah of Veldine was Gareth's knightmaster. The renowned warrior and scholar had chosen him as a squire just last week. Gareth had just turned fourteen and was relieved that he wouldn't have to wait any longer to be picked as a squire by a knight. Unfortunately, he hadn't been given the opportunity to become familiar with Sir Jeremiah much at all. The morning after Gareth had agreed to be his squire, Sir Jeremiah had disappeared to complete few last skirmishes with the Bazhir before really beginning to instruct Gareth.

Gareth was proud to be chosen by such a legend, but he couldn't stop himself from wondering if he could live up to that legend. He had to, he informed himself sternly every time that doubt began to gnaw at his bones.

Getting a peak into Sir Jeremiah's quarters might give him a head start in doing so. Nodding at Alan, he slid the door open as silently as he could, and the two of them slipped inside.

Gareth, who had expected a glimpse into his new knightmaster's inner character, was disappointed. The bed was narrow and pushed against one wall. A gray blanket was folded neatly at the bottom. No portraits hung on the walls. No personal items were on the desk, and the small nightstand beside the bed held only a glass carafe. In fact, the transparent vessel and the gray blanket were the only indications that someone actually inhabited the room.

Dejectedly, Gareth pivoted to go, but halted when Alan clutched his wrist, whispering, "Wait. I found something."

He dragged Gareth over to a niche in the wall that had been almost invisible from where Gareth had been standing. Looking around the alcove, Gareth saw that shelves were carved into the sloping sides, and that all the shelves were jammed with books.

Intrigued, he bent to examine the titles. Sir Jeremiah, he knew, was an expert in military history, and Gareth had never seen most of these volumes before. There were tomes on Tortallan battles, on foreign strategies, and accounts of famous generals. It was a most impressive library.

As he continued his survey of his knightmaster's book collection, Gareth frowned when he noticed that one of the volumes had no title or author. His curiosity rising again, he removed the book from the shelf, flipped it open, and scanned a page, reading:

_Prayer beforehand is essential in order to ready the mind. Some suffer from nausea or dizziness at first contact. Primarily, though, one must prepare for the effect of dark magic upon the mind, especially on the minds of the weak or the young. Nightmares and sinister visions lasting years can result. _

"This is a manual about the Old Ones' Knowledge Crystal," Gareth murmured, handling the tome delicately, as if it were about to erupt into flames.

"The Old Ones' Knowledge Crystal?" repeated Alan, his mouth agape. "But nobody is allowed to touch it."

"That's not so," Gareth corrected Alan reflexively. "Scholars are allowed, but not many are interested in doing so. Most scholars believe that since the Old Ones are extinct, there isn't much to be gained by looking at flashes of the horrors they inflicted upon each other. My knightmaster thinks otherwise, though." Here, Gareth swallowed hard, gazing at the book, his stomach twisted as though he had looked upon the Knowledge Crystal itself. "He believes there will come a time when we will need to understand exactly what magic the Old Ones employed when they were fighting against each other."

"Does this manual tell you how to access the Knowledge Crystal?" asked Alan, breathless.

Gareth turned a page, his heart beating against his ribcage. "Yes. It gives warning and instructions about that."

"This is so incredible," Alan gasped, his eyes shining. "With the guidance of this manual, we could access the Knowledge Crystal ourselves! We'd be the first squires to do it!"

"We can't!" Gareth protested, shocked at the very idea.

"Why not?" demanded Alan, lifting his chin.

"Because it's forbidden," Gareth snapped. "Because it's dangerous. Because we don't know enough. Because of a million reasons, all of them good ones."

"But no one would have to know if we did," Alan argued. "You could do it, Gareth. You have a keen mind and a powerful Gift. Everyone knows that. With the help of this book, you'd succeed at accessing the Knowledge Crystal."

Gareth shook his head and placed the volume back on the shelf where it belonged.

"It would be amazing," persisted Alan. "You could find out all the arcane secrets of the Old Ones. If you really knew about the dark side of magic, you'd be a better warrior. Lord Ignatius says that we can't fight evil without understanding it."

"Lord Ignatius never said that," Gareth scoffed, referring to their training master.

"Well, it sounds like something he'd say." Alan was undeterred, refusing to concede the point. "It's true. Isn't that what knighthood training is all about? All we do is study so we can be prepared to face evil. How can we possibly be prepared to meet evil if we don't comprehend it?"

There was a perverse logic to that, and that was the trouble with Alan, Gareth thought. Alan had a way of phrasing things so that they made sense even when he was asking a person to break a hundred rules.

Gareth looked at the book on the shelf once again. The idea of accessing the Knowledge Crystal was more tempting than he liked to admit even to himself, and Alan had put a finger on Gareth's strongest, most secret desire—to be the best squire, and later best knight, ever. Gareth yearned to impress his new knightmaster. Could the Knowledge Crystal be the key to unlocking his wish?

"We'll only take a quick look at the Knowledge Crystal," said Alan, somehow sensing that Gareth was wavering. "Just think, Gareth. Knights are just about the most powerful people in the country. We could be the best of the best."

"A true knight does not think in terms of power." Gareth's lips tightened in disapproval. "We are enforcers of justice."

"Enforcers of justice need power," Alan pointed out. "If they don't have it, who will listen to them?"

Alan was right, Gareth observed inwardly, even if he wasn't expressing himself in what would be considered an appropriate fashion. Knights did have power. They were asked by everyone from King Jasson down to the lowliest cowherd for help. They weren't feared, but they were respected. If that wasn't power, what was? Knights might not use the word power, but it did fit like a glove. Alan recognized that, and he wasn't afraid to say so.

The best of the best. Alan's words reverberated inside Gareth's skull. Wasn't all Gareth had ever wanted was to be the best of the best?

"Sir Jeremiah is a great knight," Alan continued. "I'd think you'd want to be worthy of him. If I had a knightmaster, I'd prepare as much as I could before I left Corus with him. I wouldn't want to disappoint him."

"I won't disappoint him if I do my best," Gareth said quietly, not out of any real conviction, but rather because he knew that he was supposed to say these words.

"Now you sound like Lord Ignatius." With a groan, Alan threw himself back onto Sir Jeremiah's bed.

"Don't sit there, Alan," Gareth hissed, but his friend ignored him.

"No one has chosen me." Bleakly, Alan stared at the ceiling.

Gareth held his breath. Here it was, the big gulf that divided them. He had been picked by a knight, and Alan had not. Gareth had been one of the first of his year to be chosen. Every day afterward, the two boys had waited for a knight to select Alan. They knew that many knights had watched him, and that some had even considered him seriously. However, each time, the knight had chosen someone else. Neither Gareth nor Alan understood why. Gareth had always been ahead of Alan in battle skills, but Alan was just as brilliant in his studies and commitment. It was unfathomable that he wouldn't be chosen soon.

"It will happen," Gareth assured him. "Patience exists to be tested."

Alan rolled over on his side and shot Gareth a flat stare. "If you say so."

Miserably, Gareth longed to take back his words. They were so…correct. At their core, they were something a teacher, not a friend, might say. Unfortunately, the truth was that he had no clue what he should say to console the other boy. The period of waiting was hard, but he was confident that, in the end, everything would be all right for Alan.

"Make a decision." Alan coiled his body into a ball and launched off the bed. "Do we access the Knowledge Crystal or not?"

Gareth stretched over to straighten the wrinkles Alan had made on his new knightmaster's bed, his forehead knotting as he contemplated his situation. Sir Jeremiah was everything he had hoped to get in a knightmaster. He couldn't jeopardize that. Not even for his best friend.

"Not," he answered at last, after what felt like an eternity of thought. "We'd get in serious trouble if we were caught."

"You never worried about getting caught before," Alan remarked, his eyes narrowing.

That's because I've never had so much to lose, a voice screamed inside Gareth's brain. Yet, he couldn't say the words aloud. If he did, it would only emphasize the fact that Alan didn't have a knightmaster.

"If you could do it without the risk of getting caught, you would do it, so the fact that it's wrong isn't really the reason you won't." Alan sauntered out the door, shooting over his shoulder, "Just wanted you to know that I noticed."


	3. Chapter 3

"_And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free." –John 8:32, Douay-Rheims Bible. _

Nothing but the Truth

Now that Gareth was finished with his official page training, he was allowed to structure his days before his knightmaster returned for himself. Although he was expected to continue to study and to devote himself to battle training and physical discipline, it was also assumed that he would allot time for activities that he enjoyed. In the brief period between a page's last official classes and his first missions as a squire, new squires were indulged by their teachers and granted more freedom than they had been accustomed to in the past four years.

Gareth woke early the next morning. His conversation with Alan the day before still troubled him, so he decided to head down to the gardens. There, he would stroll among the greenery and let the music of the fountains calm his teeming mind.

As he dressed, he reflected on how luxurious it felt to be able to choose for himself how he would spend his times. He knew such days would be over soon, and he intended to savor every second of them all the more because of that fact. Certainly, he wouldn't permit a small disagreement with a friend to run them.

When he stepped into the corridor, he immediately felt a tension in the air, as though there was a humming current rippling through the floor, the ceiling, and the walls.

Ahead of him, a few boys stood in a cluster. Approaching them, he recognized Martin of Meron, a new squire his age.

Gareth didn't have to ask the group what they were discussing, for the instant he joined them, Martin's taut face fixed on his. "Have you heard the news? The Old Ones' Knowledge Crystal has been stolen!"

Gareth was naturally pale, but he felt the blood drain from his cheeks, so that he was sure he resembled a corpse or a ghost. "What? How?"

"No one knows how," answered Martin, shaking his head grimly. "It could be anyone. There could even be an intruder in the palace."

"What if it's an evil mage?" whispered Roland of Nond, a slender second-year page.

"Yes, what if it is?" Martin asked. His tone was solemn, but Gareth detected a gleam in the other boy's eyes that suggested Martin was having a joke at Roland's expense. "He could be anywhere. He could be walking the hallways. What if he's behind you right now?"

With a gasp, Martin pointed behind Roland, who jumped in alarm.

The others burst into laughs that were longer and louder than Martin's prank deserved, but Gareth didn't share in their amusement. Instead, his heart thumping like a drum inside his chest, he turned away. There had been no intruder. He was sure of it.

Blood pounded against his eardrums as he rushed to Alan's room. The door was closed, but he tried to open it, anyway, only to discover that it was locked. Jamming his mouth against the crack separating the door from the wall, Gareth ordered, "Let me in, Alan."

There was no response.

"Let me in, or I'll go straight to Lord Ignatius," threatened Gareth, fury surging through his veins at his best friend's cowardly aversion of him. "You can talk to me, or you can explain yourself to Lord Ignatius."

The last word had barely emerged from his lips when he heard a smooth click as the lock disengaged, and the door slid open. Stepping across the threshold and shutting the door behind him, Gareth saw that the room was dark, and the curtains were drawn against the rising sun.

Alan sat in a corner, as if he were trying to push himself against the wall hard enough to melt inside it. His hands dangled between his knees, and, even from across the room, Gareth could see that they were shaking.

"You took it," Gareth stated, the words grating harshly against his throat.

"I didn't mean to," stammered an ashen Alan, whose face was stained with tear tracks, and Gareth was relieved that his friend could speak at all. "I just wanted to look at it."

"Where is it?" Gareth demanded. A brave, noble part of him wanted to destroy the horrible device that had inflicted such damage upon his friend, even as his more craven brain wondered whether he would have the courage to touch a magical crystal that had wrought such devastation upon his friend's psyche.

With a jab of his chin, Alan indicated the far corner of his bedchamber. "Over there," he whispered hoarsely. "Do you feel it? I feel so sick…"

"Why did you take it? For once in your life, couldn't you have not snatched at knowledge that was forbidden to you? Couldn't you have kept your hands off something that you weren't supposed to touch when that thing is a dangerous magical artifact? " Gareth snarled, his gaunt features making him appear older than his years. Sweat was breaking out across his forehead like stars in the northern sky during the winter, and he could feel the dark power of the crystal as if it were a serpent's belly slithering under his palm, and taste it as if it were blood in the air. He could feel it connecting his hurt and anger to all pain and rage.

He could hear it hissing to him that everyone was beset, that everybody had desires, and that all people were afraid. He could hear it murmuring in his ear as though it were a person standing behind him that that to ignore these feelings or to pretend that they somehow didn't apply to the pure protectors of civilization was a lie. The voice of the crystal rose like a cry in his head, screaming at him to stop lying to himself—to stop pretending that he didn't desire what he wanted and that he wasn't scared of what terrified him. Half the day was the night, and the crystal was shrieking at him to learn to see in the dark.

His stomach twisting, he found that he couldn't even bear to glance at the crystal. Just knowing that it was behind him in a dark corner was enough to make his legs tremble.

"I was in the library. I had it in my hands. Someone was coming. I put it underneath my shirt. Then I ran." Alan shuddered. "I was going to take it back, but I can't. I can't touch it again, Gareth. I didn't expect it to be like this."

"How did you expect it to be?" snapped Gareth, thinking that the crystal's constant hissing in his mind would be enough to drive him insane. "Did you think it would be a pleasant walk through the gardens?"

"I have to bring it back." Alan bit his lip. "I need your help."

"I told you I didn't want anything to do with this!" Gareth exclaimed, staring incredulously at his friend.

"But you have to help me!" cried Alan. "You're my best friend."

"You got yourself into this." Refusing to be swayed by this plea, Gareth shook his head. "Just stick the crystal under your shirt again and bring it back."

"I can't do it alone, Gareth," insisted Alan, his hands quaking worse than ever.

A lump building in his throat, Gareth's gaze rested on Alan's trembling hands. He didn't doubt that Alan wouldn't be able to do it.

"Please, Gareth," Alan begged.

Before Gareth had a chance to answer, the door swung open suddenly. Sir Caleb of Marti's Hill, a respected knight who had been maimed in the war against the Bazhir and who now served as the pages' archery instructor, stood in the doorway.

"Are you ill, Alan?" he asked kindly. "None of the pages or masters saw you this morning, and…"

Abruptly, Sir Caleb trailed off, and Gareth felt the atmosphere in the room shift as though the gravity had increased without warning, and he could feel the very air pressing against him, attempting to swallow him.

Staring at Alan and Gareth, Sir Caleb remarked tersely, "There is something evil in here."

Neither Alan nor Gareth could bully their mouths into moving or their tongues into shaping even the most basic of syllables.

Sir Caleb's keen gaze swept the room. Swiveling on his heel, he strode to the corner and scooped up the crystal, which he tucked carefully into the folds of a deep pocket of his breeches. Then, he turned around and regarded the two boys, his stern expression demanding an explanation more effectively and more insistently than a shouted command.

Somehow, Alan used the wall behind him to propel himself into an upright position. Once he gained his feet, he said, "It was Gareth's idea."

Shocked by this terrible, utterly unpredictable treason, Gareth could only shake his head in a mute protestation that he was innocent of the dreadful charge Alan had levied against him.

"Lord Ignatius will want to see you both," announced Sir Caleb, his scarred features more somber than Gareth had ever witnessed them.

"But I didn't—" Gareth began wildly.

"Whatever you have to say, Naxen, will be said before Lord Ignatius." Sir Caleb held up a hand. "The truth will be spoken there." With that, he pivoted and walked out of the bedroom.

"Gareth, listen." Alan started to fill the awkward quiet that choked the chamber after Sir Caleb's departure.

Wrath, pain, and humiliation flooded Gareth. He couldn't believe that his supposed best friend would offer him as a human sacrifice. Never in a million years would he have imagined that Alan would gut him like this in order to save his own skin, and that was what made this blow all the more paralyzing. Pain was always more crippling if you didn't have the opportunity to brace yourself, after all.

Feeling as if his stomach, which was on the verge of vomiting last night's supper onto the floor, was about to backstab him as well, Gareth found that he couldn't even meet Alan's gaze. Blindly, wondering how a broken heart could still persist in throbbing inside his ribcage, he fled from the room and then ran down the passageway, not having the faintest idea where his mind was telling his feet to carry him.

He had so many sanctuaries at the Royal Palace—a favorite table in the library to study at in solitude, a comfortable window in one of the towers to curl up in and admire the ruckus of Corus from a lofty vantage above it, and a large rock by a garden fountain to plant himself upon while the music of the water gently hitting the stones soothed away his every fret—but he could not envision any of those places offering him refuge now. His heart was so full of black rage and bitterness that he felt it suffocating him.

His best friend had betrayed him. Throughout his years as a page, he had always been able to depend upon Alan. They had shared jokes and secrets. They had quarreled and made up. The fact that this person could stab him in the back in a heartbeat appalled him feel so dizzy that he wasn't even confident that he could discern the ceiling from the floor anymore. After all, what could possibly be certain in life if the loyalty of a best friend wasn't even reliable?

Here, there was a swift chain of explosions in his brain as any idea of any best friend, any notion of affection and partnership, any dream of sticking by someone and depending upon somebody absolutely in the jungle of knighthood training went up in flames, burning along with it any hope that there was anyone in the castle—in the world—whom he could trust.

In the ashes these explosions left behind to serve him as a heart, he despairingly searched for something that he could rely on. Not depend upon entirely, since that was forever obliterated as a possibility, but to rely upon a little for some solace and sense that something survived in the ruin of his heart.

He found that single sustaining thought. The thought was that it didn't matter if he got even with Alan for betraying him, because he and Alan were already equal in enmity. Both he and Alan were driving coldly ahead for themselves alone. He did hate Alan for backstabbing him, but what difference did that make? Alan had always hated him for being better in battle skills than Alan could even have dreamed of being. The deadly rivalry was on both sides, and it had always been. Gareth had just been too blind to see it. There had never been a moment when Alan had not longed to destroy him. That was why Alan had tried to do so at the first opportunity.

Even with this thought to buoy him, Gareth had no idea how he managed to survive the day. Somehow the news that he and Alan had been caught red-handed with the Knowledge Crystal had spread like wildfire. Pages and squires shot him sidelong glances when they rushed past him in the corridors as though he would spit out venom. Knights he did not know studied him speculatively when he served dinner in the banquet hall that night.

He yearned to go to Sir Caleb and explain everything, but he knew that the archery master would only repeat what he had said earlier. When it came down to it, Gareth would just have to suffer through the days until Lord Ignatius found the time to speak to him and Alan.

Gareth did not have the appetite or the nerve to face the other pages and squires for a whole meal in their mess hall after serving supper in the banquet hall, so he returned to his room.

When at last the torches in the hallway were put out by servants, he was relieved. At least for the next few hours, he wouldn't be constantly under judgment from knights and his peers alike.

He couldn't wait to be summoned before Lord Ignatius. He knew that the training master would believe him and not Alan. The training master was adept at discerning truth from lies. Alan would not get away with his lie, and Gareth would have justice.

Blowing out his candle, Gareth lay on his bed, his head burning as he imagined how clearly he would speak before Lord Ignatius. When he stood before the training master, he would tell the truth—all of it. He would reveal how Alan had tried to tempt him, how he had refused Alan, and how Alan had pressed him still further.

It was with great satisfaction that Gareth imagined Alan's punishment. A reprimand and punishment would surely not go far enough. Alan could even be expelled from knighthood training.

His vindictive reflection on the harsh penalties that could be meted out to Alan was chopped off suddenly when his door swung open. When he was in his room, Gareth never locked his door, because, before now, he had never needed to do so.

Alan slipped inside. Hoping that his contempt would fill the space better than any words, Gareth said nothing.

Alan plopped onto the floor beside Gareth, chewing on his lower lip. "I had a reason for saying what I did, you know."

"I'm not interested in your reasons," Gareth hissed.

"You don't understand anything," exploded Alan, his face flaming in the darkness. "Everything comes so easily to you. You never think about other people and how they suffer. You just kept telling me I shouldn't agonize over not getting chosen. Why shouldn't I worry about it? Time is running out for me to be picked. I don't want to be the failure rejected as a squire by all the competent knights. It's so simple for you to tell me not to fret about any of that when you were picked right away."

"Are you blaming me for that?" Gareth demanded icily. "Is that why you lied to Sir Caleb?"

"No," answered Alan, shaking his head fervidly. "I don't blame you for anything except not trying to understand how I feel. We're supposed to be best friends, and you never really tried. All you think about is your own pleasure in your success."

"Get out of my room," Gareth snapped.

Instead of doing so, Alan stretched out on the floor. Lowering his voice, he asked, "Can't you understand, Gareth? I'm in trouble. I need your help. I know I was wrong. I shouldn't have taken the Knowledge Crystal, but I was desperate, don't you see? I thought if only I had an edge—if only I knew something that nobody else did—I would be chosen. Can't you understand why I would think that? Can't you see why I would crave that edge?"

"No," Gareth said, although he did understand and see so well that he couldn't even bear to admit it to himself.

Possibly detecting the lie in his tone, Alan continued, "Now if Lord Ignatius finds out I stole the Knowledge Crystal, I could be kicked out of training in disgrace."

"As usual, you're exaggerating," responded Gareth scathingly, even though he had been thinking the same thing minutes ago.

"Everything is at stake for me." Hopelessly, Alan spread out his palms. "However, you have already been chosen as squire by the great Sir Jeremiah of Veldine. Not only that, but Lord Ignatius has taken a personal interest in you, and the king has watched you, too. Everybody knows that you have an extraordinary potential. They'll forgive you for seeking out some arcane bit of forbidden knowledge, especially since your knightmaster is interested in the Knowledge Crystal. You could just say that you wanted to do some research about it."

Ragged with desperation, Alan's voice floated up to Gareth's bed. "I panicked when Sir Caleb walked in. I saw my future, and it scared me. I could get kicked out. Where would I go and what would I do, then?"

"You should have thought of that before you stole the Knowledge Crystal." Haughtily, Gareth lifted his nose in the air.

"I know I shouldn't ask such a big thing, but who else can I ask but my best friend? And, no matter what, you're still my best friend." Alan paused. For a long moment, all Gareth could hear was their breathing. "Will you cover for me?"

Gareth wanted to burst out with a savage "No!" Yet, he couldn't. He didn't know if Alan would be expelled from training. When it came down to it, he didn't think so, but it served Alan right to have to worry about it.

Regardless, punishment would be severe for Alan, especially since he had attempted to mask his crime with a falsehood intended to frame someone else.

Alan was right that Gareth was a favorite of Lord Ignatius, though. He knew how he could spin the story so that he would get a lecture most likely. He could let Lord Ignatius believe it was a hunger for knowledge and a desire to impress his new knightmaster that had driven him to stealing the crystal, but he wasn't ready to lie for his friend.

At the same time, he couldn't bring himself to refuse someone who seemed so desperate, so he said nothing, and, after a long while, the two boys fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

"_And if thy right eye scandalize thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee. For it is expedient for thee that one of thy members should perish, rather than that thy whole body be cast into hell."—Douay-Rheims, Matthew 5:29. _

Victory and Defeat

Gareth woke before dawn. Lying in the dark in a sea of blankets and pillows, he listened to the silence and knew that Alan had departed some time during the night. Still, as he stretched out on his back, he felt the weight of the air on his body as though his friend were sitting upon his chest.

Reluctant to rise, he stared at the walls of his room, watching the blackness silver into gray until he could see the outlines of his furniture. Then he squinted at the calendar nailed above his bed. Usually, the calendar was packed with classes. Lately, though, he had enjoyed looking at its blankness, relishing that the emptiness would soon be filled with important missions.

Studying his calendar, Gareth mulled over his future. It was indeed secure. Was Alan right? Had he been smug about that, and, as a consequence, failed to appreciate his best friend's distress?

For a few minutes longer, he stared at the calendar, contemplating this, before it registered in his brain that the entire day had been blocked out.

His mouth falling open and adrenaline roaring in his veins, Gareth sat up. The urban search exercise—it was today!

The exercise was designed by Lord Ignatius more for competitive fun than for serious training. The older students in knighthood training, the ones who had either been chosen as squires or who had finished their formal page training, were invited to sign up for it. The participants were divided into two opposing groups and had to track one another through a district of Corus not far from the Royal Palace. In order to do so, they had to use stealth, cunning, and surveillance techniques against each other.

Alan and Gareth had signed up for the exercise last week, but would the pair of them still be permitted to take part in the competition?

Hurriedly, Gareth dressed and snatched up his practice sword, which weighed as much as a real one but had a dulled tip that could not inflict much injury on an adversary.

When he stepped into the hallway, he saw Lord Ignatius. Before he could even think of retreating, the training master nodded at him, and asked, "Heading to the tracking exercise, are you?"

"I—I don't know if I am allowed, sir," stammered Gareth, even though he was aware that Lord Ignatius despised waffling.

"You made a commitment." Lord Ignatius cocked his head and arched an eyebrow. "You are a squire. Thus, the answer you find is…"

"I'm going, my lord," Gareth said. With a perfunctory bow, he bustled off.

He had just enough time to grab some fruit for breakfast before those participating in the contest were supposed to assemble outside on one of the practice courts.

As he reached the mess hall, snatched up an apple at random from the buffet table, and hastened out of the chamber again on his way to the practice courts, Gareth wondered if Alan would have the nerve to join in the exercise.

The answer to this proved to be an affirmative. Alan stood poised awkwardly on the periphery of the crowd of rowdy boys crammed onto the dusty practice court. Clearly, Alan, in his discomfiture, was taking care to be neither too close nor too far away from the masses, and the hood of his robes was tucked low, so that it shaded his eyes from view.

As Gareth slipped into the opposite side of the cluster from Alan, he was relieved that nobody shot him appraising glances or whispered behind their palms about him to a neighbor. It was good to see that, whatever the gossip about him and Alan had been, it had at least died down long enough for everybody to concentrate on the impending competition.

While the boys awaiting Lord Ignatius' arrival chattered excitedly, the chilly morning breeze flushed their cheeks and whipped their cloaks around them like skirts. Gareth felt the combined aura of the group—energetic, unfocused, and raw, but still strong.

For a moment, he stepped outside of himself. It was something that happened to him occasionally. He would find himself removed from everything, as if he floated above his peers.

_How young we all are_, he noted inwardly now. _Someday, I will look back on this and wish for such a simple thing as a training exercise on a cool morning. _

The notion made him feel better for a moment. One day, his problem with Alan wouldn't matter. It would be nothing more than a wave of static lost in an ocean of missions that comprised a remarkable lifetime.

Then, Lord Ignatius and Sir Caleb strode out onto the practice court. Lord Ignatius' piercing gaze riveted on Gareth only fleetingly, but it brought him back to reality with a bump nevertheless. His mood abruptly soured as he thought of the inquisition he would soon have to face.

The assembled students quieted as Lord Ignatius passed through them, stopping in the middle of the group.

"You know that every year the squires participate in an urban tracking exercise," he announced, the wind wafting his words across the palace grounds. "Remember that, although you will not be graded or otherwise formally evaluated, this is a test. Therefore, you must take it both seriously and lightly. You must attempt to win, but, if you lose, you may enjoy it."

The boys grinned at the training master's contradictions and fiddled with the hilts of their practice swords, obviously anxious to begin the contest.

"Now, the rules," Sir Caleb put in crisply. "You will be separated into two teams. Lads on the right side of the court are on the Blue Team, while those on the left are on the Gold Team. Each team will have a different starting point in the city. The goal of each team is to successfully bring a pomegranate from one of the fruit sellers in King Jasson's Market back to the palace before sunset. Team members may be eliminated only by one light touch with a practice sword."

Knowing that no matter how easy it sounded, the actual competition would turn out to be much harder, the boys smiled once more.

"You must keep to the northwest quadrant of Corus. To cross beyond that boundary is to be disqualified," Sir Caleb continued. "Do all of you understand this?"

The students nodded, all striving to conceal their impatience, because they all knew the rules already.

Lord Ignatius smirked, letting them realize that their attempts to hide their impatience hadn't fooled him one bit. "Perhaps you should wait until the sun is higher in the sky," he suggested, an impish twinkle in his eyes.

"No, please, sir," the boys chorused as one voice.

"Ah, then the team leaders are these," Lord Ignatius said. "Gareth of Naxen for Blue Team, and Alan of Trebond for Gold Team. Knights Favian of King's Reach and Rhyss of Nicoline are waiting to transport you to your starting locations."

Taken aback, Gareth gaped first at Lord Ignatius and then at Alan, whose stupefied expression revealed how deeply startled he was. Why had he and Alan been picked as team leaders? Maybe yesterday morning, they would have been chosen. After all, yesterday morning, they had not been suspected of stealing the Knowledge Crystal from the library. Yesterday morning, they had been squires in good standing. Now, though, they weren't, and so why had they been offered positions of honor in the exercise?

Still reeling from Lord Ignatius' words, Gareth clutched his sword hilt just to have something solid to hold onto in an ever-shifting world. He had not yet completely figured out adult logic, that was certain.

"Wake up, Naxen." Irascibly, Martin of Meron yanked on the sleeve of Gareth's tunic. "Is it a little early for you?"

"Sir Rhyss is waiting for us," Prince Roald commented softly before Gareth could respond. "Let's get started."

Noticing that the Gold Team members were all scrambling aboard the cart Sir Favian was to drive to their starting point, Gareth clambered onto the other cart along with the rest of his teammates. As they jammed into the rear of the cart, Sir Rhyss beamed at them from the bench where he steered the horses.

"Room for everyone to fit, if not comfortably," he remarked. "Don't worry. I'll have you to your starting location on North Street in a shake of a lamb's tail. Meanwhile, you can plan your strategy."

The two carts rattled off down the lane to Corus, and Gareth's stomach tied into a knot that would have made a seasoned seaman proud when he recognized that every person on Blue Team was looking at him, plainly waiting for him to begin the discussion of their tactics. Grimly, he supposed that, since he was their leader, they did have the right to stare at him, expecting guidance.

Clearing his throat, he summoned up a mental map of the portion of the city they would be operating in. Fortunately, he was familiar with much of it. It consisted of guild halls, homes of affluent merchants, several grand boulevards with twists he knew quite well, and King Jasson's Market, which was located in an expansive plaza near the textile guild hall.

Rapidly, Gareth scanned the map in his head, trying to remember all of the sector's avenues and alleys. Everybody on his team should spread out, and each member should get a pomegranate. That would increase the odds of their winning the contest.

Oh, but would it really? Gareth demanded of himself, suddenly doubting whether his first instinct was the best one. If he deployed his team in that manner, he would be acting as Alan expected him to, so why should he do it?

"Our starting point is the intersection of North Street and Main Street," Prince Roald observed when Gareth, apparently, had been silent too long. "That's lucky. There are many alleyways around there to hide in, and the carts will be unloading wares for the marketplace. We can use them for cover."

"We can pick the swiftest among us to get the fruit," added Martin, nodding.

"Alan's team will probably be staking out the fruit vendors." Prince Roald's forehead furrowed. "We have to reach the fruit stands first if we hope to be victorious. I don't like it, but sometimes Father is right, and the only way to win is to be aggressive. Speed can spare us unnecessary losses here."

"Maybe not, Your Highness," muttered Gareth, rubbing a hand through his muddy brown hair.

"Do you have a better idea?" Martin pressed, the challenging edge in his tone making it clear that he did not appreciate being contradicted by anyone.

Biting his lip pensively, Gareth didn't reply. What would Alan anticipate that he would do?

Alan would expect him to race to retrieve a pomegranate first, he decided after a moment's thought. Alan would anticipate that he would send three team members to get the fruit and guard them with the rest. If all of them didn't return, Alan would expect him to send out more team members.

"Do you have a plan or not?" snapped Martin, whose scant patience was obviously exhausted.

"Yes," Gareth nodded, his mouth tightening. "We're not going after the pomegranates at all—or, at least, not at first."

At this pronouncement, they all shot him skeptical glances, but Gareth was confident that he could bend them to his will. Surely, he would be able to make them understand the sensibility—the genius—of his strategy, because he knew one thing on this day: he had to defeat Alan.

"Why expose ourselves to get the fruit at the start?" Gareth argued. "Why not let Gold Team try for the fruit and pick them off one by one? We might lose a few team members, but not nearly as many as they will, because when you are intent on getting something—in this case, the fruit—you take more risks. Then, when no Gold Team members remain, we can simply stroll into the marketplace, buy a pomegranate, and return to the palace. It's almost as easy as stealing broccoli from a baby."

"Yes, if we're able to eliminate all the Gold Team members, but that's an if big enough to drive this cart through," Martin pointed out testily. "What if, as is much more probably, one of the opposition slips through our ranks and makes it back to the palace with a pomegranate?"

"That is not an acceptable outcome," Gareth declared, his coldness prompting the others to exchange raised eyebrows, but he wasn't perturbed by their reaction. Early on in his page training, he had learned that in order to inspire faith in his abilities, he could not admit doubt to anyone apart from himself.

"But where can we set up guard?" demanded Martin, as dubious as ever. "There's not much cover in the market, and we need good sight lines for your plan to succeed."

"I have a solution for that, too." Gareth rose as their cart halted. He spotted Sir Rhyss watching him curiously, but he pretended to be oblivious to that fact as he commanded his team, "Follow me."

For awhile, Gareth's plan worked marvelously. He and his team had a perfect view of the fruit vendors from several wagons in an alleyway by King Jasson's Market where they had concealed themselves among bolts of muslin, silk, velvet, and wool. They could clearly see the thronging plaza before them, and the fact that Alan had set up his Gold Team members in several ambush areas.

Now, it was obvious that Gold Team was waiting on tenterhooks for Gareth to strike. Gareth knew that Alan believed that Blue Team would launch an aggressive first move. After all, that was typically how Gareth started a swordfight, but a trademark could betray you. It was better to mix up tactics.

Of course, Alan had no idea that he, too, had a trademark maneuver. When he was losing a battle, he made a deliberately wide pass to his left, and then pivoted around to his opponent's rear, which provided him with precious seconds to catch his breath and compose his mind.

Gareth sent his group out from the wagons in pairs. Those in the wagons communicated with those in the marketplace via a series of quick hand gestures.

From their positions in the wagons, it was easy for Gareth and the others who remained with him to track the evasive procedures employed by Alan's team, and to direct their own teammates below.

With a slight touch of the sword, one after another, Gold Team members were eliminated. Gareth bared his teeth in triumph. His side was winning. So far, they had taken out five members of Alan's team, while Alan's team had only managed to hit one of his teammates.

Then, Alan must have guesses what they were doing. Suddenly, Gareth saw two Gold Team members sprinting toward the wagons, searching for the hidden members of Blue Team. They hadn't reached the wagons where Gareth and the others were concealed yet, but soon they would.

There were also three other Gold Team members that Gareth had to worry about. If Gareth were Alan, he would try to ambush them at the top of the alley.

"Let's get out of here," he hissed at his companions, hopping as gracefully and silently as a cat out of the wagon. While he waited for his teammates to leap out of the two wagons they were hiding in, he blended into the shadows dappling the alley.

Once everybody had leapt out of the wagons, he led them creeping down the alleyway away from the market. None of them dared to breathe as they slipped through the shadows and wagons toward another teeming thoroughfare.

Only when they joined a jostling crowd of shoppers on the next street did they dare to breathe normally. Their faces tinged crimson, they pushed their way through masses of men, women, and children, and then darted down another alley that fed into King Jasson's Market.

Seconds later, they burst into the open air of the plaza, which was a relief because the air in the alley had smelled strongly of human waste. The sun was blazing high overhead now, but clouds were gathering, and shade covered them as they dodged shoppers and carts, wending a convoluted path to the fruit sellers.

Abruptly, Gareth wished that they had formed a plan before they had charged into the square. All of them were racing full-tilt toward the fruit vendors, hoping to be the first to buy a pomegranate and return safely to the palace with it.

He had lost his focus because the end was so near. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that two of his Blue Team members had been hit. Alan hadn't set up an ambush at the tip of the alley, after all. Instead, he had set it up in the marketplace itself.

"They're in the market!" Gareth hollered to his teammates. "Split up!"

A silver blur spun at him from his left. Cursing, he jumped back so rapidly that he almost toppled backward into a display of children's toys.

All over the plaza, members of Gold Team were charging at his team, their training swords held discreetly at their sides, but still prepared to attack or defend. He saw Martin get tapped and turned away, a disgusted scowl tugging at his lips as the fruit Martin had grabbed smashed on the cobblestones.

Prince Roald clutched a pomegranate in his hands as Alan suddenly appeared from behind a vibrant awning. Alan's sword whirled and landed with lightly on the back of Prince Roald's shoulder. As the prince winced, Alan grinned, plucked the pomegranate out of Roald's hand, and tucked it into his pocket.

Now each team had five members left. It was a tie. Gareth's foolishness had lost him his lead.

Alan tossed a playfully challenging glance at Gareth through the crowd, and fury coursed through Gareth's veins. Right now, he felt anything but playful. This wasn't a game, or, at least, it wasn't for him. This was war.

His jaw clenching, he lunged over the display of toys. He snaked around a mother with a brood of children clinging to her apron, dived under a table loaded with jewelry, rolled, and came up behind a Gold Team member. He struck the other lad gingerly between the shoulder blades. Not staying long enough to observe the reaction of the boy he had eliminated, Gareth moved on, striking another foe from behind, before engaging another in combat.

He ducked his adversary's swirling sword and kicked at the other boy's shins. His enemy twisted away from the attack, but, in the process, his foot slipped. Taking advantage of his opponent's unbalance, Gareth rested his sword against his foe's neck. Then, without pausing, he rushed toward another Gold Team member who was dashing toward a fruitseller. He flew into a backflip and landed gracefully in front of the other lad, whom he simply tapped on the shoulder with his weapon.

Panting like a dog in the heat, Gareth looked around the square and glowered when he saw that every one of his teammates had been hit. Alan's ambush had been successful. The only balm for Gareth's wounded pride was that he had managed to eliminate the rest of Alan's team. That made them even except, of course, for the fact that Alan had a pomegranate.

There was no time for him to get a fruit of his own, he calculated rapidly. If he got Alan, then he would capture the pomegranate as well. Then, he'd return to the palace and deposit the pomegranate in Lord Ignatius' hands with a respectful bow.

All the students had trudged off, some in small groups, toward the palace. They were not allowed to help their leaders once they had been eliminated, and Alan had vanished amid the horde of beings swarming the stalls in the marketplace.

_Think_, Gareth told himself sternly. _Don't act until you think._

Calming his mind with an effort and working to steady his violently thumping heart, he studied the plaza surrounding him. At first, he saw only the shoppers, vendors, and goods packing the market. Then, as he increased his concentration, he looked for certain distinctive characteristics of Alan—a precise tilt of the chin, a certain gait, and a unique angle of the head. All at once, everything else faded into the background, and he saw Alan, who had cleverly reversed his cloak, so that the dark underside faced outward.

Smiling faintly in grim satisfaction, Gareth set off after Alan. He would not make the same mistake again. This time, he would wait for the perfect moment to strike.

He stayed well behind Alan, even though he didn't think that Alan knew he was on his trail. Alan headed out of the market and turned down an alleyway that Gareth wasn't familiar with. Leave it to Alan to find all the back ways in Corus, he snorted to himself. Since they had left the crowds behind, Gareth fell further behind Alan, taking care to remain out of the other boy's sight.

It was afternoon, now, and the sun had dropped behind heavy cloud cover once again, which made it almost as dark as evening.

The alley curved past the marketplace and made a sharp left, snaking along the rear entrances of a variety of taverns and other vice dens. The stench of unwashed flesh, rancid food, too much alcohol, feces, and garbage was overpowering his nostrils, desperate to protect himself somewhat from the foul odors, he lifted his cloak over his nose.

To Gareth's horror, the palace suddenly loomed ahead. They were much closer to it than he had thought, and his heart pounded against his lungs, making it difficult for him to breathe. Alan was in sight of victory. Gareth couldn't let Alan win. He would have to act now.

Gathering all his remaining reserves of energy, Gareth jumped. He landed on a soft heap of garbage, which offered him plenty of spring. Garbage is good for something, after all, he noted inwardly, as the momentum lurched him skyward. He soared over Alan's head and touched down in front of the other lad, his sword drawn. Not bothering to absorb the shock of his landing, he used the bounce to charge toward his opponent.

Alan had less than a second to adjust, but his reflexes at avoiding trouble were excellent, a source of envy among the pages and squires. He leapt backward, reaching for his weapon, so that Gareth's first strike whistled through the air where Alan had been an instant previously.

"So you found me," he said, seeming delighted, rather than dismayed. Their friendship had always been built on a fun sort of competitiveness, but Alan's reaction only enraged Gareth further. He resented Alan's ease—Alan's causal assumption that the two of them would always be friends, no matter what. That's what had prompted Alan to push the boundaries of their friendship beyond any reasonable level. Alan had pushed their friendship to the breaking point, and he had expected Gareth to sit back and take that sort of abuse.

There was a flash of shock in Alan's eyes when he noted the icy glint in Gareth's. As Gareth, his sword an almost invisible streak of metal, surged at him, Alan stumbled backward.

Almost instantaneously, Alan recovered, countering with a sequence of aggressive maneuvers that forced Gareth to assume a defensive posture.

The two of them knew each other's moves so well by now that it was practically impossible for them to catch one another off guard. Again and again, Gareth tried to surprise Alan, but every time he was checked. Frustration welled in him, clouding his mind. He was aware that he had to locate his calm center in order to win, but he couldn't do so. He had lost his battle mind as surely as Martin had smashed the pomegranate earlier.

They fought down the length of the alleyway, using the garbage bins as cover and occasionally as weapons, pushing the cans at one another to gain a precious second or two to take a breath.

Time stopped for Gareth, who was consumed entirely by the battle, and drowned in his own sweat and desire to win. His muscles were aching with the struggle to emerge victorious from the fray, and Alan's face was scarlet. Damp hair clung to Gareth's forehead, and his wet tunic had affixed itself to his spine. Trickles of sweat were streaming down Alan's cheeks, and, every so often, they both had to stop, exhausted, to catch their breath.

Then one of them would recover more quickly than the other and launch himself at his enemy. Again, their grunts and curses would echo down the alley.

Time may have halted for them, but the sun still moved in the sky. Long shadows stretched down the alleyway now like admonitory fingers, and Gareth registered vaguely that it was past time for them to return to the palace. By the rules, both of them had already lost.

"Come on, Gareth," Alan muttered. "It's over."

Gareth took several ragged breaths. Sports had formed in front of his eyes like constellations, a sign that he was seriously drained. He felt dizzy, but he still found enough of a spurt of strength in his limbs to attack Alan, hissing, "It's not over yet."

Alan was at the end of the alley now. He had only a few steps before his back would be against the stone wall of a tavern. Gareth knew he could finish him there.

"You hate me, don't you?" Alan grunted, parrying a thrust. "Just because I finally asked something of you."

"Something it wasn't fair of you to ask," snarled Gareth, chopping viciously at Alan's sword arm.

"That's what friendship is." His mouth tightening, Alan blocked the assault.

"Not my definition." Gareth sneered, pressing Alan further back with a rapid series of slices to the midsection.

"Yes, your definition is that someone gives, and you take. Someone admires you, and you accept that admiration." Alan's face twisted, as he barely managed to block a blow to his stomach. "Your idea of a friend is somebody you can use."

"You have always resented me," snapped Gareth. "Now I know how much."

With that, he dove forward. Alan's words had filled him with wrath. He knew that he was only supposed to touch Alan lightly to win the duel, but that inability to even graze the other boy's skin had raised his blood to the boiling point. His body felt as hot as molten iron.

When Alan made a half-turn to the left, swinging out in a wide arc, Gareth smirked. It was Alan's trademark move—the one he utilized when he was losing.

Gareth knew that Alan would spring to his rear in an attempt to flank him. Instead of moving to the left, Gareth shifted back two steps. When Alan came at him, he was ready. He brought his weapon down on Alan's shoulder, right where the other boy's tunic had torn along the seam.

Alan screamed in agony, looking at Gareth in disbelief. It had been a true blow, designed to wound.

"You maggot," he growled, lurching at Gareth.

Now they fought without any regard for the rules of engagement. They used every trick at their disposal, employing feet and fists in addition to their swords, kicking and punching wildly at one another. Gareth had never fought like this. In a part of his mind he understood that this style was unfocused and sloppy, turning them both into losers, but he couldn't stop. His body, governed by his ire and his hurt ego, had taken control of his mind.

"Enough." The word was spoken quietly, but it cut through the sound of their battle, and they both halted. Lord Ignatius had appeared in the alley.

The training master walked over to Alan, and Gareth saw now that the sword hit had left a deep bruise on Alan's bear arm. It looked awful; the center was a dark red with a blue-black rim surrounding it. A slice spit Alan's right cheek, and his left hand was bleeding profusely.

"To the healers you must go, Trebond," Lord Ignatius pronounced, his expression grave. "Naxen, go to your quarters. I will send for both of you later."

For a moment, Alan's eyes rested on the ground. Then, he lifted his head. His gaze locked on Gareth's. In that instant, a shiver of loathing rippled down Gareth's spine, and a hard knot of certainty coiled in his chest. He and Alan, far from being the best of friends, were now the best of enemies.


	5. Chapter 5

"_If anyone causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him if a great millstone were hung around his neck, and he were thrown into the sea." –Douay-Rheims Bible, Mark 9:42. _

Shatterpoint

Gareth stood before Lord Ignatius' mahogany desk, his sweaty hands clasped tightly behind his back. He didn't know whether Alan had come in before him or would be appearing after. All he knew was that it was time for him to tell the truth. Fighting to keep his voice steady, he related how Alan had wanted them to steal the Knowledge Crystal, and later, how Alan had begged Gareth to lie for him.

"And were you prepared to lie for him?" demanded Lord Ignatius, arching an eyebrow.

Gareth paused for a moment before answering. He was tempted to lie, saying that he had never even considered Alan's preposterous request, but he sensed that the training master could see through him like water.

"I was not ready to lie, no, sir," he replied, squeezing his fingers together anxiously. "Not exactly, anyway. I did think about doing it, though. Alan was my best friend."

"No longer your friend, is he?" Lord Ignatius' tone rendered his words more of a statement than a question.

This Gareth could respond to without getting mired in doubt and hesitation. The truth was clearer than any Knowledge Crystal. "Yes, my lord. He is no longer my friend."

"That is obvious to me, as well," remarked Lord Ignatius, his manner crisper than an autumn apple. "A training sword is not intended to wound, Naxen, but you severely injured Trebond."

"I didn't mean to." Splotches of red starting to dot his cheeks like giant freckles, Gareth chomped on his lower lip. "I was angry, sir, and my control wasn't its best. My closest friend had betrayed me not long ago."

"You lost control." The training master's voice was now as sharp and as hard as a well-honed blade. "That is all you need to say. You are much too old for excuses."

Staring at his feet, Gareth nodded miserably. He had expected this rebuke, but he had not foreseen that it would string so badly. Never before had he disappointed Lord Ignatius like this.

"Although there was tension between you and Trebond, you should have controlled your anger," the training master went on, each word resounding like a forceful rap against a tuneless bell. "You used the exercise to release emotions you should have let go in other ways."

In a blinding flash of rage, Gareth realized that he had been tricked. Now he had no doubt that he and Alan had been selected as team leaders so that Lord Ignatius could pit them against one another and discover how deep, and how regulated, the tension between the pair of them was.

"You were not tricked," stated Lord Ignatius as if Gareth's thoughts were as easy to read as words on a piece of parchment. "You were given an opportunity to succeed or to fail, and you failed because you could not control yourself."

"I know that, sir," Gareth muttered, indignation at being tricked warring with chagrin at his failure now.

"You might know this, but you must act upon that understanding—you must improve your self-discipline, since there won't always be someone hanging over your shoulder to ensure that you behave properly," snapped the training master. "You must conquer your pride and your anger, boy. Those are your flaws."

"I will overcome them, my lord." Gareth fought the impulse to sigh gustily. Would he never escape this humiliating lecture?

"You may go." Sighing as if once again he were privy to Gareth's thoughts, Lord Ignatius waved a hand in dismissal.

"Your decision, sir?" Gareth asked, every vein in his body pulsing wildly against his skin.

"You will hear it," the training master educated him tersely.

Lord Ignatius' manner was forbidding enough that Gareth comprehended that there was nothing for him to do but bow and depart. As he left the training master's study and shut the door as silently as possible after him, he found that he had to resist the temptation to collapse against the solid wood door. Only a few words had been exchanged, but he felt as though he had narrowly emerged from a slaughter on a battlefield against the Scanrans or the Bazhir.

His knees practically buckling beneath him, he stumbled down the corridor. When he rounded a corner to head down the passageway that would ultimately return him to his bedroom, his heart plummeted into his intestines when he almost bumped into his knightmaster.

"I'm sorry, sir," he stuttered, managing an ungainly obeisance. "I should have looked where I was going better."

"Yes, you should have." Sir Jeremiah of Veldine's eyes, the color of a dark pool under ancient oaks, penetrated his squire. "However, while you may not have been looking for me, I have been searching for you."

"You have?" asked Gareth, nervously linking his arms behind his back.

"Of course I have." Briskly, his knightmaster steered him down the hallway. "I received a note from Lord Ignatius about the mess you got yourself into the instant I turned my eyes away from you, and naturally, I had to return to the palace as soon as possible after receiving such a message about my squire's involvement in stealing a valuable, dangerous artifact."

"I see, sir." That was all Gareth could choke out through his dry tongue and numb lips.

"Perhaps you do." Sir Jeremiah's expression suggested that he very much doubted if Gareth did see, as he continued grimly, "Anyway, you and I need to have a very long talk."

"Right now, sir?" Gareth swallowed a lump in his throat that seemed to be the size of a mountain. One severe reprimand from a man he respected was more than he could bear in a day. Forcing him to suffer through two in a row seemed to be crueler than sentencing him to decapitation.

"Obviously." His knightmaster's lips thinned as they arrived outside their quarters. "I didn't return from the desert to not speak with you immediately."

Before Gareth could stammer out a response, Sir Jeremiah opened the door to his room, and, pointing at his bed, ordered in a tight voice, "Sit down and explain to me exactly how you came to be involved in the theft of the Knowledge Crystal."

"Why don't you just ask Lord Ignatius, sir?" Reluctant to recount all his crimes for the second time in less than an hour, Gareth scuffed his feet against the floor. "You seem to be relying on him as the source of all your information about me."

"Don't sass me, boy," his knightmaster admonished. "I want to hear what happened from your own lips right now. Get talking."

"It's a long story." Gareth ceased shuffling his feet, but kept his gaze riveted on the floorboards. "Alan wanted to investigate your quarters, and he tempted me into doing it with him—"

"Into violating my trust by sneaking around my room, which you had no right to enter without my permission, you mean," cut in Sir Jeremiah sternly.

Gareth hesitated, and then mumbled, "Sir, I didn't want—"

"Be honest with yourself and with me, Naxen." Sir Jeremiah shook his head. "Don't blame Alan for your own weakness. Nobody is ever tempted to do what they don't wish to do. Everyone is tempted by what they want to do. Alan may have tempted you, but you chose to give into the temptation he offered. Why don't you tell me what you wanted to get by breaking into my bedchamber like a common, filthy thief?"

"I wanted to get to know you," burst out Gareth. "When you asked me to be your squire, all I knew about you was what everybody said—that you were a respected scholar and an esteemed warrior. I had no clue what you were like as a person. That didn't bother me too much, because I figured that we would gradually become familiar with each other as we went on missions together, but then you left to fight the Bazhir without me as soon as I had agreed to be your squire."

"I understand your desire to know who I am." His knightmaster sighed. "That being said, Squire, you must understand that we get to know other people by developing relationships with them and gaining their trust, not by sneaking into their rooms and infringing upon their privacy-"

"There wasn't even much I could learn by infringing on your privacy," pointed out Gareth defensively, his cheeks burning. "In your room, you have no personal items except your books-"

"My books," Sir Jeremiah repeated, enunciating the words with all the gravity of a death sentence. "You found my notebook about the Old Ones' Knowledge Crystal particularly interesting, didn't you, Gareth?"

"Anyone would have been intrigued by it," protested Gareth, his flush deepening still further. "Anyway, I wasn't nearly as enthralled by it as Alan was. He wanted to access the Knowledge Crystal with its help. He thought that the Knowledge Crystal would provide him with the edge he needed to be picked as a squire. I told him that we couldn't access the crystal because it was dangerous and forbidden to do so, but he wouldn't listen to me."

"Stop dumping all the responsibility on Alan," said Sir Jeremiah, his tone harsh. "If you had been strong enough to resist the temptation to enter my room without permission, Alan never would have read my notes on accessing the Knowledge Crystal."

"I didn't mean for him to see those notes." Gareth bit his lip. "I certainly never planned for Alan to steal the Knowledge Crystal."

"Our actions have many consequences, not all of them predictable," answered Sir Jeremiah heavily. "Worse still, once we start mixing jam into pudding, we can't mix it out again. Many times we can't undo our actions or the inevitable impact that they will have on others. As a result of your actions, your friend discovered a piece of forbidden knowledge—which is forbidden precisely because it is very powerful and very dangerous to even the noblest and wisest of people—and couldn't resist the lure of possessing information that others didn't. He stole the Knowledge Crystal only because you gave him the idea of doing so."

"That's not fair." A clammy sweat lined Gareth's furrowed forehead and mouth now. "Sir, with all due respect, you scolded me for failing to resist Alan's temptation. You said that I should take responsibility for my own weakness. Well, if that's the case, Alan is also to blame for his own weakness in falling for the temptation of the Knowledge Crystal. It seems inconsistent to say that I was responsible for his temptation, but he wasn't for mine."

"You misunderstand me, lad." Sir Jeremiah's face clouded more than ever beneath his dandelion hair. "Everyone should always take responsibility for their actions. The one who does the tempting and the one who falls for the temptation are both guilty, and so both need to be held accountable."

"In that case, you should be aware that Alan tried to tempt me to access the Knowledge Crystal with him. He said that if we had that knowledge of evil we could be the best of the best, and that we couldn't fight evil if we didn't really understand it." Gareth ground his teeth. "I bet it was all lies, but it had enough appearance of truth to make me almost believe it. Good thing I had the sense to see through his lies and refuse to access the Knowledge Crystal with him."

"Of course it was all lies that had enough resemblance to the truth to almost be mistaken for it," Sir Jeremiah replied. "All temptation consists of lies that sound like the truth, even while being perversions of it."

"Ever since I met him, Alan was ready to twist the truth," Gareth spat, all bitterness.

"He'll pay a high enough price for that this time, I suspect," observed Sir Jeremiah, his nostrils flaring. "I anticipate that he'll be expelled from training."

"You do?" Gareth stared, not knowing whether he should be depressed or elated by his knightmaster's words.

"Yes, I do." Somberly, Sir Jeremiah nodded. "By the sound of it, you didn't steal the Knowledge Crystal, and you are a favorite of Lord Ignatius and King Jasson. On the other hand, Alan actually seems to have stolen the Knowledge Crystal, and he is not a skilled enough warrior to be favored by either the king or the training master. There is no reason for them to be lenient with him, so they will be harsh with him to make an example of him to ensure that no one else decides to attempt to attain forbidden knowledge."

"It's ironic that the Knowledge Crystal Alan thought would glorify him has been his undoing instead." Gareth's lips quirked into an expression even he couldn't fathom.

"Knowledge is a wonderful and dangerous thing," his knightmaster informed him, locking eyes with him. "Always remember that. Just because you desire knowledge that doesn't mean that you have a right to it. Wanting a piece of information, no matter desperately, doesn't mean that you should have it, especially immediately. Knowledge has the power to destroy us and those dearest to us if we aren't extremely cautious with it. We must always recall that knowledge sought to boost our egos will often by our downfall instead."

"Yes, sir." Abashed, Gareth lowered his head.

"You had better understand me, because you will be writing a fifteen thousand word essay on what you learned from this fiasco," pronounced Sir Jeremiah with all the warmth of a glacier. "Rest assured that if I'm not satisfied with the depth of thought you've put in it, I will have you write another one twice as long."

"Yes, sir," Gareth whispered, grimacing at the thought of how sore his hands and mind would be at the end of this ordeal.

"Now, I want you to apologize to Alan for leading him down the path to temptation," his knightmaster stipulated.

"I'll apologize for that if he says he is sorry for tempting me." Defiantly, Gareth folded his arms across his chest.

"You'll apologize for your crime, even if Alan won't for his," countered Sir Jeremiah, eyes blazing. "If you don't I'll take it out of your hide."

"I don't see why I should have to apologize when Alan doesn't." Gareth's lower lip trembled. He hated the idea of what remained of his pride taking a licking when he apologized to Alan, but he also didn't think that he would survive a thrashing from his muscular knightmaster with his dignity intact, either, and he was willing to bet his bottom penny that Sir Jeremiah wouldn't stop hitting him until he agreed to apologize to Alan. Caught between a rock and a hard place didn't even begin to describe his current dilemma.

"You are my squire, and I happen to hold you to a higher standard than Alan holds himself," Sir Jeremiah rapped out. "I don't doubt that you loathe me for that right now, but twenty years from now, you might very well be grateful for that."

"I didn't want any of this to happen." To his horror, tears pricked like needs at Gareth's chestnut eyes. When it came down to it, he wasn't used to criticism from anyone except himself. He was the gifted one. He was the student that teachers always pointed to as a perfect example of a battle maneuver or a homework exercise. Being corrected tore at the very fiber of his self-identity. "I wanted to make you proud of me."

"Act honorably, and I will always be proud of you." Gently, Sir Jeremiah clasped Gareth's shoulder for a moment before commanding, "Get up now and find Alan so you can apologize to him."

His heart and feet as heavy as stones, Gareth obediently headed out of the palace and down to the stables. Throughout their page years, this had been one of his and Alan's favorite haunts. At night, they had often crept into the stables, hid themselves in the hay bales that chafed at their skin, and given nicknames to all the horses. Together they had imagined the glorious days when they would be knights, striding through here, hosting themselves into the saddles of their steadfast steeds, and racing off to save the realm from a thousand perils.

When he reached the stables now, Gareth strolled down the empty aisle between the stalls. With Sir Jeremiah back, the time he would be leaving on important business was rapidly approaching. In fact, within the week, he could be riding off to fight the savage Bazhir or crush bandits that dared to terrorize the kingdom's villages.

Up ahead, he saw that the door to the paddock was open, and, wondering if Alan was out there, he walked out of it. When he stepped outside, he saw that the last clouds of the afternoon had gone, and that the sky was now a clear black. The stars seemed lower in the sky than usual, and glittered with such intensity that it felt as though they were searing the black sky holding them.

It turned out that he wasn't the only one staring up at the stars. Alan leaned against the paddock's fence, gazing up at the heavens.

"I'm sorry," Gareth said, moving over to stand beside the other boy.

"Are you?" Alan posed the question softly. "I hear no sorrow in your voice."

"I am sorry, Alan," insisted Gareth, a vein pulsing in his throat, "but you have to admit that you got yourself into this mess."

Alan spun around to face him. His eyes gleamed like the stars above, and Gareth realized that there were tears in them. "A mess? Is that what you call it? How typical of you. Nothing touches you, Gareth. My life is _over_. I'm never going to be a knight. Can you imagine how that feels?"

"Why do you keep asking me to feel what you do?"Gareth exploded, frustration pounding in his temples. "I can't do that. I'm not you!"

"No, you're not me, but I know you better than anyone. I've seen more of what is inside you than anybody," hissed Alan. "I've seen your heart, and I know how empty it is. I've seen your anger, and I know how deep it is. I've seen your ambition, and I know how ruthless it is. All of that will ultimately ruin you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Gareth snarled. "You wanted me to lie to protect you. Do you think you're better than me?"

"No, that was never what it was about." Alan shook his head. "It was a about friendship."

"You thinking that you should be better than me is exactly what it was about!" scoffed Gareth. "You've always been jealous of me. That's why you wanted to destroy me. Instead, you've ruined yourself."

Snorting, Alan walked past Gareth, heading back toward the stables. "I know one thing," he said, his voice trailing behind him. "I will never be a great knight. That's true, but neither will you. You will never be a great knight, Gareth of Naxen."

Then, Alan was swallowed up by the darkness, and Gareth only wished that the boy's words could be devoured by the night as well. Despite the chill in the air, Gareth's cheeks were flaming. Angry words crowded in his throat, begging to break free, but he had decided that he would let Alan have the last word. After all, he had the career, and Alan had nothing.

Gareth looked up at the heavens that shimmered with stars and hummed with energy. There was so much for him to see and to do before he died. There were so many beings for him to fight and to fight for. There were so many things to live and to die for. Everything lay ahead of him, and so he would not mourn what was behind him, which was now nothing to him.


	6. Chapter 6

_"He that hideth his sins, shall not prosper: but he that shall confess, and forsake them, shall obtain mercy."-Douay-Rheims Bible, Proverbs 28:13. _

Epilogue: Secrets and Confessions

"There you have it, son," finished Duke Gareth dryly. "I hope that, although the tale might not be as interesting as it would be if it were told by an old gossip, it will at least be more accurate."

"I can't deny that it was unbiased, at any rate." Gary's keen eyes lanced into his father's for a long moment before he continued, "Father, the way Alan lied about who stole the Knowledge Crystal was wrong, as was how he tried to persuade you to cover his own crime. It was also incredibly foolish of him to take the crystal, but you have to at least understand that he was only planning to access it, not take it. He only took it because someone was coming, and he was terrified of being caught with it in his hands. Fleeing the library with it was stupid, but he was scared, and people do dumb things when they are scared."

"Accessing the Knowledge Crystal at all was the height of folly, boy," snorted Duke Gareth, his nostrils flaring.

"I know," Gary answered calmly. "Still, you understand, Father, why he wanted to access it. After all, you were tempted to access it yourself, because you thought that the knowledge you could gain by doing so would impress your knightmaster. You were just as driven as he was by the idea of being the best of the best."

"We all feel rage, but most of us don't commit murder. Everyone experiences lust, but few of us commit rape." Duke Gareth shook his head. "I felt ambition, but I didn't attempt to access the crystal. Yes, I experienced the temptation, but I did not surrender to it."

"Then have some mercy on the person who did, since you have to know how strong the lure of forbidden information was, Father," insisted Gary, his chin jutting out passionately. "After all, you admitted yourself that it was only a fear of the consequences of being caught that kept you from accessing the crystal, not any innate nobility."

"Fear of being caught isn't a great motivation, Gary, but it is a boy's." Duke Gareth's lips pressed together in a thin line. "Now that I am an adult, I do the right thing out of a love of virtue, not out of some fear of the consequences of being caught with my hand in the cookie jar."

"Exactly, Father, now that you are an adult, you do that, but when you were a boy, you were different," Gary said cheerily. "When you were a boy, you did bad things for stupid reasons, and good deeds with the pettiest motivations behind them. You couldn't help it. Your mind and your morality were in the roughest stages of development. Of course, Alan was also in the same state, so, naturally, he couldn't help but make bad decisions for dumb reasons and do good with the most selfish motivations. Perhaps it is time you forgave him for being young and selfish at the same time you were."

"I don't blame him for being young and selfish at the same time as me." Duke Gareth's eyes narrowed. "Rather, I fault him for continuing to be selfish and placing a higher value on arcane bits of knowledge than on those close to him. Just ask your friend Alan how much quality or quantity time he spent with his father and you'll get my point."

"You don't hate him for not spending enough time with his son," scoffed Gary. "You despise him because he made some bad decisions when he was a boy, but, Father, he was faced with some really hard choices, and he wasn't ready to handle them with the sensitivity and moral discernment an adult would display."

"Hard choices reveal a man's true ethics," replied Duke Gareth tightly. "It is simple to be moral when the choices are easy, and when the consequences for making the right decision are not difficult to handle. When the choices are challenging and the consequences painful, then you see who has real integrity."

"When you were faced with hard decisions as a boy, you made mistakes, too." Scowling, Gary crossed his arms over his chest. "You can't blame Alan for needing to learn through experience like you did."

"That's just it," Duke Gareth established, his mouth twitching upward wryly. "Lord Alan hasn't learned how to be less self-centered. If he showed some signs of repenting for his crimes as a lad or of even understanding them, I could forgive him as I have pardoned myself for my youthful errors."

"You are truly sorry than for not being as sensitive to Alan's needs as you should have been and for ripping him apart with your training sword?" asked Gary quietly, cocking his head.

"Of course." Duke Gareth sighed. "I regret the impact that my anger, my ambition, my lack of self-control, and my susceptibility to temptation had on Alan. In the end, I won't deny that we both made serious mistakes and that I also brought about the death of our friendship. In my defense, I will say, though, that I have worked every day since to fix the shortcomings that destroyed my relationship with Alan."

"We make extremely poor decisions, and then we invest an incredible amount of time and energy into not repeating them or righting our wrongs where possible." Gary grinned, waving his arms around expansively to convey that his remark was all in jest, and, under no circumstances, should be taken seriously. "It's a long, rugged journey, but at the end of it is redemption. Redemption, yes. That's the road we're all on, isn't it? Everyone is traveling at a different pace, but we are all headed toward that elusive destination called redemption."

"You must have broken into Sir Myles' ale supply," grumbled Duke Gareth. "I hope that he uses your guts for a wineskin."

"When you make comments like that, you must be grateful that I'm a sentimental, rather than belligerent, drunk." Gary chuckled.

His father smiled for a moment, and then demanded, his expression sober again, "Are you going to tell your friend Alan about what created the animosity between his father and me?"

"No," Gary stated without hesitation. "Alan doesn't like his father, and so I see no reason to aggravate that by telling him a story that is only going to exacerbate his loathing for the man who sired him. As you discovered, Father, knowledge can ruin relationships, and I don't think I should inflict any more damage on the already strained one between my friend and his father. The very stones of this palace are filled with secrets, and I'm content to let the reason why you detest Lord Alan of Trebond be another one."

"I thought you said that sons must understand the wars of their fathers even if they don't wish to continue them." Duke Gareth arched an eyebrow. "If I recall correctly, you insisted that sons must know the history of their fathers whether they loved or hated their fathers."

"I did say that." Gary smirked. "However, I'm not sure that I ever really believed that. Mainly, I said that to persuade you to tell me why you hate Lord Alan."

"Impudent whelp," growled Duke Gareth. "I should have drowned you when you were born."

"Since you have resorted to making death threats, I think I shall take my leave before they become reality." Beaming merrily, Gary rose. With a bow, he went on in a less playful tone, "Anyway, Father, I don't think that Alan needs to know about why his father and you hate one another. I was mainly interested in the story because I respected you and had to find out if I could reconcile the truth of what happened between you with the man I admired so much."

"Could you?" Duke Gareth pressed, trying to act imperious even when his heart was pounding anxiously against his lungs.

"Yes." Gary bit his lip, and then said, "For the first time, I see you as a human rather than some sort of demigod. Finally, you have come down from your pedestal and revealed yourself to be a man like me, subject to the same weaknesses as me. If anything, that makes me love and admire you more, because I have a peculiar attraction to flawed art."

At this, Duke Gareth felt the overwhelming desire to wrap his son tightly in his arms, to squeeze the burly boy to his chest, and to never let go of the son who was growing up way too fast for his tastes. Yet, he couldn't do that, since it would embarrass both of them. Instead, he merely stood and clasped his son's shoulder gently. Though his throat had constricted to half its usual diameter, he managed to say, "I think every father longs to hear his son say that."

"We're even then, because every son longs to hear his father say _that_." Chortling, Gary threw back his head. "Now, I'll be taking my leave before I say anything that ends this terrific, temporary truce between us, although I will go with the suggestion that, if you are ever bored in a council meeting, 'terrific, temporary truce' is a wonderful tongue-twister that you could strive to inject into all your sentences as a fun challenge."

"If Jon picks you as Prime Minister after me, the realm is doomed," muttered Duke Gareth, positive that a man with less mettle would have buried his face in his palms in despair at Gary's flippant comment.


End file.
